


Put On Your Overcoat

by thescribblenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frustration, Gen, Mycroft is mean when he's exasperated, This has been decreed by thescribblenaut, deal with, flat bit on roof of 221, hurt/comfort?, not angst for once!, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2420393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because someone shows no reaction, doesn't mean that they aren't affected by something, whether this be words, actions, or implications. In some cases, it's the implications that do the most damage. </p><p>***<br/>"Hey, I'm not planning an attack, promise. You don't need to stare at me like that, I'm on your side. I've already told Mycroft where he can stick his umbrella."</p><p>"Nobody's on my side other than me. That's not how I operate."</p><p>"Whoops, I just blew up the rule book." Lestrade quipped, miming warming his hands over a fire. "Looks like you're stuck with me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put On Your Overcoat

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I had a few arguments today. It was not fun. This is my therapy. Hush. 
> 
> This has been made a teen rating, because I think teenagers and upwards would relate most to this. A ten year old would maybe get it. I don't know. 
> 
> Or:
> 
> In which we discover that Mycroft can be a bit of a twat when he's exasperated (because he's two steps away from being my least favourite character). 
> 
> (I'm sure he's deeply upset about this.)
> 
> (Yeah, right.)
> 
> I do not own, nor do I profit from, and have given up on plotting to steal the rights. I have too much to do. I'll wait for 2016, like everyone else. 
> 
> May I ask the reader to remember, that, just because someone doesn't openly broadcast their emotions, doesn't mean they're not there. This is my theory with Sherlock, and also, I don't think he's constantly deducing, and I highly doubt that he would be, were he in the middle of a fight like this with Mycroft. 
> 
> Just sayin'.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, hoping that somehow, the hatred would pass out through his eyes and onto his brother, perhaps even managing to knock him out cold for a bit. Obviously, nothing happened, other than Mycroft’s continued radiation of disapproval.

“You, _lost_ it?” His brother finally gritted out. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes.”

“Brilliant, Sherlock. You’re a genius.” The sarcasm was half-felt, a tiredness overcoming Mycroft. It hurt, nonetheless. Which was ridiculous.

“ _Where_ did you lose it?”

“I don’t know. That’s the point of losing it.” Sherlock bit on his tongue, realising that that was most definitely _not_ the best thing to have said. Bang went any chances of explaining about deadlines and stresses and near-misses with the last three cases, which had barely been a day apart from him.

“Do you, in your _infinite_ wisdom, happen to know _when_ you lost it?” Mycroft asked disdainfully. Sherlock shook his head, looking down at the ground. His brother sighed, just the faintest trace of a growl coming out at the end.

“Do you know _anything_ useful, Sherlock?”

“I know _lots_ of useful things!” The detective defended hotly.

“Useful to the _real_ world, not your fantasy, William.” Mycroft snapped, standing. “Do you _realise_ how important that was? To _Mummy_? All you had to do, was get a _ring resized!_ Is that _really_ so hard?”

Sherlock clamped down on the urge to shout back, to make Mycroft shut up and _listen_ , for once, but didn’t let it get out. Better to take the abuse and repay him later.

 

Mycroft would have no interest in the case. Never mind the fact that Sherlock had taken down a man wanted _internationally_ for treason. Never mind the fact that _without him_ , this man would have ferreted out all the tiny secrets of the British government and thrown them across the globe like confetti.

 

“Can you not even find time for that menial a task, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, incredulous. “It’s not like I can do it-“

“Can’t we just have an identical one made? It’s not like she’d _notice!”_ Sherlock asked desperately. Mycroft sighed.

“That’s not the point. This will take _more_ time, _more_ resources, more money, more lies as she waits for the blessed thing back!” Mycroft spat. “Can’t you see? It’s not just the _act_ \- although that in itself is _stupid_ -“

“I’m not _stupid!”_ Sherlock hissed, eyes glittering dangerously. Mycroft tilted his head.

“Really? Are you quite sure?”

“ _Very.”_

“I’m not. I am beginning to wonder if you’re that spectacular after all, or whether you’re still that silly little boy who was obsessed with pirates half his life.”

“ _One_ mistake, Mycroft-“

“And the consequences. See? Stupid.”

Sherlock seethed silently, again biting down on all the retorts about weight and foodstuffs and loneliness and deadlines and the more major members of the government. They caught in his throat, becoming one big ball of violent frustration, constricting his vocal chords so his voice was strained. Mycroft gave him a disgusted look.

“Get out.”

Sherlock had never turned away so fast in his life.

 

* * *

 

 

He stormed his way down the street, backing down an alley as soon as there was any inkling of the noise, the data, the _people_ \- all becoming too much. He definitely didn’t want another breakdown. He wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction. Sherlock leant himself on a wall, the unyielding brick becoming a surface for him to rely on, repeatedly swinging off it and making impact hard, until the bit between his shoulder blades was numb. The burn in his throat was becoming too much, he absolutely did _not_ want to let it out, so he swallowed. Wrestled his emotions under control. Continued home.

 

It was nearly dark by the time he made it home. He entered the flat, its cosiness and warm lighting suddenly claustrophobic and sickening. He stormed up to the roof, where he happened to _know_ Mycroft’s cameras never went, curling up on his side and sighing once there. He shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then sighed again, letting out so much air that he got a serious pain in his chest. He inhaled quickly, then held it- if he let it out just then, it’d end in tears, and he really couldn’t be bothered. Crying took so much _energy_ , something he simply didn’t have at that moment.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking at the roofing tiles around his flat concrete area. He didn’t deduce anything, didn’t _want_ to deduce anything, just noticed. All the flaws as well as the smooth, flawless surfaces, the sharp edges that could easily slice through his skin, were he careless enough.

 

As Mycroft thought he was.

 

Ah, the frustration was back. The one that made him clam up, shake away affection, sympathy, comfort. In this mood, he was useless- too annoyed to communicate, even. It was something he abhorred in hindsight, but something he found endlessly fascinating at the time. It was built of paradoxes and something similar to grief, and made him snappy and even more abrasive than usual. He became impatient, with himself and anyone around him, more likely to get angry. The communication difficulties frustrated and stressed him, but talking felt like too much effort. Too much energy wasted on the _apes_ on this planet. Mycroft would under- **_no. He wouldn’t_**.

 

Mycroft still thought himself too superior. Mycroft was the golden boy, the wonderful one who found social niceties a doddle to reciprocate and saw people as being so far below him that they couldn’t even manage to be annoying, ending up amusing him. Mycroft was a glacier, huge and untouchable and perfect. He was logic and genius and talent and manipulation and power and authority- and Sherlock didn’t even _want_ most of that, but that didn’t prevent him from hating Mycroft for having it.

 

And one of the worst bits? He _knew_ Mycroft wasn’t perfect, didn’t have a perfect, carefree existence. His brother had his own insecurities, his own stresses, worries…hopes, dreams, as Mrs Hudson would say. Mycroft didn’t dream. He _planned_ and _achieved_. Anyway, even with all his own pressures, Mycroft _blasted_ Alistair _goddamned_ Holmes managed to cope, and to fix it. _And_ put up with Sherlock’s constant, incessant…whatever it was Mycroft classified his actions as.

Mycroft would know the word.

 

 ** _Stop it_**.

 

Sherlock jerked back into the real world as someone gently lay a hand on his shoulder. He huffed irritably when he saw Lestrade’s calmly concerned face, yanking his shoulder back and hiding under his coat. The DI sat down behind him, saying nothing and being oddly…quiet. Normally, Lestrade was all noise and vigour and enthusiasm and bad jokes, but now he was silent, not even his breathing was audible. It wasn’t like his ‘grey days’ either, when he was distressingly loud, but in sighs and growls and the sound of his hands ruffling his own hair in frustration.

 

He was just…there.

 

Sherlock sat up slowly, eyes narrowed and gaze sharp, all defences down and on red alert should the DI attempt anything. In effect, had Sherlock been a weapon, disguised as something else, this would be the moment when all the guns and lasers etc came out, aimed and primed and ready but nowhere near firing yet. This would be the moment when an injured wildcat waits to defend itself, claws and fangs on display before the strike, muscles tensed and ready, but still waiting.

 

When you’re injured, you can’t afford to expend the energy a primary attack would bring. You wait for the enemy to get closer, then use one fast, efficient move to end them.

 

Greg gave him a fleeting glance, alongside a disarming smile.

“I always think that it’s a sign that someone really respects you when you can hurt them like this.” He said. Sherlock scoffed, flopping back down.

“It’s those closest to you that have the most ammunition?” He asked, scathingly. Lestrade nodded.

“I know you don’t think much of it. But I also know that you know it’s true. Otherwise, why would you hide up here when Mycroft, or John, or Mrs Hudson says something to you, but lay on the defences thick if Sally or Anderson do the same?” He asked. Sherlock’s metaphorical wildcat limbs moved even closer to the pounce, as he sat up again, glaring at Lestrade accusingly.

“Hey, I’m not planning an attack, promise. You don’t need to stare at me like that, I’m on your side. I’ve already told Mycroft where he can stick his umbrella.”

“Nobody’s on my side other than me. That’s how I operate.”

“Whoops, I just blew up the rule book.” Lestrade quipped, miming warming his hands over a fire. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes thinned again, this time partially in reluctant amusement.

“How did you know where I’d be?”

“Sunshine, I’ve known about this little beauty spot for a while now. You used to run off up here when we confronted you about missing evidence, or drugs.”

Well _that_ stung. Apparently, Greg noticed, because he frowned fleetingly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was a tactical retreat.”

“Mocking, now, are we? My, my, Lestrade, you _have_ been spending too much time around Donovan.”

“I’m not mocking. I’m being serious. Deadlines and pressures and expectations and promises all add up to one hell of a lot of stress, which for you means that everything becomes too loud, and too claustrophobic.” Greg stated simply. Sherlock stared at him in shock. Clearly, he needed to keep a closer eye the detective inspector, as _someone_ had become much to perceptive for his liking.

“Well I didn’t _sleep_ my way to promotion, Sherlock.” Greg retorted. “I’m not just a pretty face.”

“And being a pretty face is debatable in the first place.” Sherlock grumbled, a tiny smile developing as he looked down at the ground again. Lestrade leaned forwards, trying to see his expression.

“Was that a joke? Is that a smile?” He asked, not mocking or joking, just checking. Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“Yes, alright, you win, as much as it pains me to say so.” He allowed, before his face fell into its usual mask of collectiveness. Lestrade sighed contentedly.

“You know he doesn’t mean it, right?”

“So I’ve been told.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as Greg pulled a face. “That means, yes, I know, Lestrade.”

Greg nodded. “So, is it _this_ the sort of thing that separates you two?”

Sherlock considered for a moment before replying.

“Mainly, yes. Seems like a little thing, just saying it. It would on paper, too, if you took down what we said. It’s more the subtext that matters. And his is so _eloquent_.”

“Sibling rivalry doesn’t have it covered, then.”

“No. I don’t think anything does.”

“You know something else I know? Just because you don’t broadcast everything you know and feel, doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“And I know that just because you can fake a smile, have a laugh, doesn’t mean you don’t feel crushed underneath sometimes.” Sherlock smiled bittersweetly at the ground again as Greg’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “See the game this is? You’re not the only one with perception, Lestrade.”

“Never said I was.”

“Never said you weren’t, either.” Sherlock  informed him darkly.

Greg stood suddenly, stretching. “Come on. We’ll freeze if we stay out here much longer, and I for one do not want arthritis because your brother can’t shut his mouth when he’s frazzled.”

He ushered the consultant to his feet, then virtually frogmarched him down into the warmth of 221b, where a mother hen known as Martha Hudson was in the process of bringing up tea and scones. Sherlock eyed the scene detachedly.

_Those closest have the most ammunition..._

**Author's Note:**

> So, my titles normally come from quotes. This one did, but I struggled for once. There were four contenders. The theme was 'arguments'. I chose ones that would make me smile. 
> 
> "I never make the mistake of arguing with people for whose opinions I have no respect."  
> Edward Gibbon 
> 
> "We're in a giant car heading towards a brick wall and everyone's arguing over where they're going to sit."  
> David Suzuki 
> 
> "Christopher Hitchens was a great warrior, a magnificent orator, a pugilist and a gentleman. He was kind, but he took no prisoners when arguing with idiots."  
> Richard Dawkins 
> 
> And then there was this one. I had to choose it. Blatant reference. It was designed for this purpose. Well, it probably wasn't, but oh well... 
> 
> "There is no good in arguing with the inevitable. The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat."  
> James Russell Lowell


End file.
